On a plastic crate
by Snovolovac
Summary: In "The rising son" when Jack flew from the hotel room, he escaped to the cold, dark alley behind the hotel building. Only then did he realize he really didn't like the cold. Nor the memories which accompanied it. -Jack remembering Castiel and wishing he was there with him.


He wrapped his arms around jeanclad knees and leaned his cheek against them. The plastic crate was not the most comfortable seating choice, especially after a brief experience of sitting on a motel bed, but better the crate than the cold asphalt.

Cold. Jack was only three days old, but he already knew he didn't like that. It was... unpleasant. Unpleasant and made his skin overly sensitive which in turn made his clothes uncomfortable, but in order to stop the cold from seeping deeper, he had to press the fabric even tighter around himself. He shivered.

The uncomfortableness on his body wasn't the only thing that bothered him about the cold.

It brought back hazy, bad memories. A voice. Whispering, praising, promising, slithering around his mind in excitement. Jack remembered hearing it for the first time.

His mother was asleep after a long period of concerned trepidation which kept her awake. She was exhausted and the stress and lack of sleep finally lulled her under. Jack was glad about that, she needed her rest and at least then he could provide her mind with calm feelings of dreams. He was doing just that when he heard it.

For the few short moments, he thought it was his mother's subconsciousness whispering love to his soul as she often did, but quickly dismissed it when the voice introduced itself as his Father.

Father. At first, Jack was excited at the sensation. His father was talking to him, his parent, someone who will cherish him as much as his Mother already does. But then the cold came. The tone of the voice was praising, but the words... **together we will do great things, son. Together we will destroy everything that dares stand in our way.** Destroy? ...but Jack doesn't want to destroy anything. His mother kept telling him about peace and paradise. What does destruction have to do with any of that? **We're going to be glorious**.

Glorious. Is that a good thing? His mother hadn't used that word while talking to him yet, but a quick survey of her sleeping mind showed him warmth and light accompanying the definition. No, destruction did not fit "glorious" at all.

 **We have big plans and bright future in front of us. See you soon, my son.**

The voice flickered out, leavig behind a feeling which Jack would later learn is called "dread". Dread and that nasty chill that did nothing to soothe him.

Jack didn't know much about the world beside what his mother taught him. He didn't yet completely understand love and familial ties. But he learned new things every second and there was one thing he learned just then. He did not like the undertones in his Father's voice and as it seemed the sentiment for the man himself wouldn't be much different.

The voice visited him a few more times, and each time it did Jack's suspicion only grew stronger.

Mother was beautiful and warm. But after learning about _him_ from Dean, Sam, and that book which mentioned God a lot, and from his own brief experiences, Father was anything but. He was scary. And cold. And Jack did not like the cold at all.

He felt it the night he was born, too. In fact, it was partly what made him grow into an adult so fast.

He was born a baby, small and defenceless, waiting for someone to pick him up and care for him. But no one was there. Castiel was supposed to be, but he wasn't. And Jack knew that wasn't right, he read Castiel and his intentions were pure, Castiel wouldn't just leave him like that if something trully wrong hadn't happened.

Then someone shouted really loud outside, loud enough for him to feel the pain behind the scream. He recognized the word no.

And then the cold hit him.

Something inside his young body rattled, some bond he wasn't trully aware of pinged and went silent. And in that instant he chose to grow up. It wasn't safe and Castiel was obviously not coming. Jack needed to escape the cold.

He pushed himself up and ran into the room his mother spent the most time in, remembering the safety she promised it would bear. He didn't feel it.

He curled down in the corner and waited, believing Castiel would be there any moment.

But he wasn't. Instead, came Sam and well, the rest is history.

Shivering again, Jack closed his eyes. He didn't want to think about that night anymore. Instead, he focused on memories of his Mother. They helped with the coolness of the night.

How he wished she was with him at that moment. She and Castiel.

Castiel spoke to him often, too. But his voice was nothing like Lucifer's. Where Lucifer's abruptly invaded his mind, Castiel's softly knocked for permission to enter Jack's consciousness. And he was light. Not dazzlingly bright like the devil, but more dimmed, more calm. Instead of dread, Jack felt... serenity, while talking to him.

Castiel did not offer greatness and glory. He offered guardianship and care. And in his undertones Jack felt purity and love which burnt so strongly it left Jack in awe and craving to be a part of it. Something his Fa-...something Lucifer never managed to do.

He really wanted Castiel to be beside him.

Castiel would have protected him from the yelling he just ran from, from Dean's anger, from Lucifer and from this damn cold that wouldn't go away.

Mother said he would. And Jack believed it, he still does.

But Castiel was not there and there was no one left to guide him but the angry and sad men in the room above him.

No one alive to love him, but his memories.

No one to make the chill go away.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut and burried his head deeper into the sleeves of his shirt, because the tear tracks on his cheeks stung in the cold.


End file.
